


I am the Ruin of his House

by fowo



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Delilah/Billie Lurk is present but not focused on, I have no control over myself, Multi, Origin Story, all for future chapters, and Daud/The Outsider, and Delilah/Daud, because who am I kidding, same is true for Delilah/The Outsider, some implied sexual content but nothing graphic, will update accordingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5932714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowo/pseuds/fowo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The self-making of one of the greatest witches in a generation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Her Branches reach for me

**Author's Note:**

> We know little about Delilah, but I tried to be as true to the canon timeline as I could. All titles are from Delilah's paintings.

 

 _The Knife of Dunwall_ was a name that first came into existence when Delilah was still a girl kneading bread. It was the name of a mysterious, frightening figure that everybody had heard of but few had ever seen. He was but a mystery, eluding the public eye, but the stories were everywhere. They told of a dusky-skinned boy, clad in shadows and wielding a blade, leaving a trail of blood and death wherever he went.

Jessamine and Delilah heard the adults speak of him. Delilah liked the intrigue that came with it, and loved the gore of the stories. She didn't care much for the truth behind them. The more fantastical, the better. Some said he surely was the spawn of a witch, a child birthed in a heretic ritual. Some said he wasn't human, and that his eyes were black like tar. Whatever he was, when they said his name, their voices were hushed, and Delilah felt a cold tingle run down her spine.

Jessamine however grew up vaguely aware that the man behind the name wasn't just a scary story, but moved frighteningly close to her, to the nobles surrounding her, a knife hidden beneath clothes under the same roof she walked under. It was a vague fear and growing unease, and she was anxious when Corvo was not by her side. Every time a cabinet member failed to show, or a noble was found dead in their bed, while nobody dared to outright say it, they were all thinking the same.

Jessamine had never seen Delilah as anything but a friend; an equal, if not by rank, then by value. Maybe that was to blame for Delilah believing that the world had wronged her.

But the two girls were very different. They liked different things, but Delilah also was nothing but a servant. It was easier to get rid of her than trying to solve the peculiar situation when the time came. Jessamine mourned the loss of a friendship, but Delilah grew estranged from her. Jessamine moved in other circles, and Delilah was a sole baker's apprentice. Disgraced and cast out, she had to struggle and wriggle her way up from the very bottom, eating the corruption like a maggot devours rotten flesh. Everything was given to Jessamine without hesitation. The Emperor loved his daughter so, especially after the passing of his wife. Delilah went to bed hungry, flour like grease under her fingernails.

Others might have given up, or not tried at all. But Delilah was headstrong, and driven by spite and fury. Dunwall Tower was as far away from her as ever, but she set her eyes on it with fierce determination.

Even as a girl, she had possessed talent, and instead of making dough she started painting, until the biggest of them all took her in. Later they mentioned her as the next Sokolov, praised her paintings, her sculptures making them _ooh_ and _ahh_. Suddenly, she moved in the same circles as Jessamine again, but the lost friendship was no longer of interest to her. She was so much more than Sokolov, who Jessamine had called a Tyvian swineherd even long before he became Royal Physician. She grew tired of standing in his shadows, and did not desire to paint portraits of those who wished to live eternally in oil and chalk.

She wanted more, now, that she had tasted the deliciousness of power.

Her dreams started to be of darkness in delft blue and cobalt, in phtalo blue and ultramarine, peacock and indigo. The paintings she did, scrambling out of bed and standing in a nightgown by the easel in the middle of the night, vibrated of color. She would still be painting when Sokolov found her hours later, when the sun was high up in the sky. Delilah's face and hands were covered in paint, and she was pale and shaking, putting all her life in her paintings. She drew the face of the young man with the pretty black eyes who she saw in her dreams. The more Sokolov urged her to tell him more, the more she shied away from him. Eventually she left his care.

After that, the boy talked to her for the first time.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm very gay for Delilah," I told myself, and I looked upon her tag with thirst, only to find it barren and empty. So I took to the quill and the paper, thinking I would just dabble a little. But inspiration is a tricky little thing, and I gave birth to a small monster.  
> Send help.


	2. His Mark upon my Flesh

Delilah never considered the Outsider's mark an advantage, but rather a reward for all she had already achieved.

 And still, all her fame was not enough.

 "Daud," Delilah said as she rested in the Void. "I know you know of him. Tell me."

 The boy liked to watch her paint. He had only visited her in her sleep at first, and all she painted for him was nothing but dreams. But with a little bit of magic, Delilah quickly figured out how to mix ground-down whale bone and blood into her paint, what signs to write and sigils to draw, and the Void became accessible for her as she wished. The boy seemed delighted by her skill, and paid her a lot of attention. Even when the old barrister thought she was with him, it was here that she really was. She painted them a sanctuary, white marble under an ancient elm tree, and wind chimes from bone whispering songs in its branches. A refuge from the world that bored them both.

 She would paint for him; his own face enchanted him so, like he had never seen it before. Herself, and he said it was exactly what she looked like. She painted the humans they both despised so, both the dead and the alive. 

 When she said this name, _Daud_ , her brush ripped a turquoise scar over his face painted in blood-red. She had never seen the man they called _the Knife of Dunwall_ before, but in the Void, she knew his face like it was a reflection of her own. 

  The Outsider's eyes rested on her, and there was the faintest of smiles in the corner of his mouth. "Why would you bother yourself with an interest in a man hailing from Serkonos?" he asked. "He is nothing compared to you. He kills for money, but that's all he can do. There is no grace and no class. You are so much finer." His fingers trailed her sharp features. Already, she wore nothing but black, and painted her nails and eyes, not caring for the rules of either etiquette or fashion. It was not to attract people to her. It was a warning.

 "They write books about him," Delilah insisted, twisting her brush and leaving an angry mark in the thick paint. "They whisper his name in fear. I _want_ what he has."

 The Outsider watched her tear Daud's face in two with her color like a knife had split flesh so many years ago. Now, instead of blood, there poured paint. He found her eagerness, her hunger for power so very fascinating. She threw herself against the world with all her spite. She was so different from Daud, who he had lost interest in a while ago. Daud was so easy to see through, so easy to expect what he would do next. Murder for money, vanish into the shadows. He was busying himself with followers to fill the emptiness the Outsider had left when he had abandoned him. The Outsider looked to him less and less. Everytime he did, he saw the same. Simple deeds and simple needs. So boring.

 The women he marked were so much more interesting than the men. Where Daud slaughtered with little finesse and less grace, Delilah watched and kept her head low, waiting, patiently, for her time to come. She whispered lies and treason, letting others do her bidding as she stayed in the shadows. No doubt she would entertain him for years to come, and maybe indeed become as powerful as she longed to be. He was looking forward to it. He wanted to see all of her paintings, he wanted to watch her bring men and women alike to their knees with their love and their fear for her. He wanted to see her dream come true.

 "He is one of my marked," the Outsider affirmed simply.

 Delilah hissed a sharp noise through her teeth, scornful. "I knew it," she spat. "There is no way he can do what he does without your power."

 The Outsider knew she was only angry at Daud for having achieved what she still wanted, and earlier, too. He smiled. "Oh, but he can," he said. "He just got _better_ with a little inspiration." He leaned in to her again, unable to let go of his favorite toy. She tolerated him, only him, he knew. He cared little for the affection of humans, but it amused him so. Delilah barely tolerated him, where others begged for his attention. She was so special, so different. "Keep away from him," he advised softly. "The wild mutt bites. Daud is dangerous."

 "I want what he has," Delilah insisted. Her fierceness made her so very beautiful. "And I will have it; even if I have to erase him from this world like a failed painting with turpentine."

 "Say, dear Delilah," the Outsider said, as if he had not heard her at all. "Have you ever heard of the Brigmore Witches?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, that took a little longer than I anticipated. I apologize for the long wait! The next chapters should be quicker. 
> 
> Thanks to puppyblue for helping me with this fic; and do let me know how you liked it!


End file.
